Sophie Claire
by wujy
Summary: She was French aristocracy before she died, now doomed to an eternity with a husband who bores her and his inane Headless Hunt.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I affiliated with it in any way.

Note: This is for the Ring of Fire/King's Cup Challenge by alyssialui on the HPFC forum.

The following short is brought to you by the prompts: Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven, "No, this is Patrick," and with a word restriction of 700 words.

Word Count: Exactly 700

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><p>Sophie Claire<p>

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><p>"Gloomy, isn't it?"<p>

She was out on the balcony overlooking the garden when the question was posed to her, although calling it a 'garden' was really a bit of a favor. No one had tended to it in ages, and the vines had overrun the lot. Nothing colorful had survived the ravages of time, and it was all cast in a rather dreary shade of gray-green in the light drizzling through the overcast night sky.

"Abysmal," she agreed with no particular inflection, not bothering to turn and address whoever was speaking to her. It was a man's voice, and she had no particular inclination to speak with a man.

She was leaning with her elbow planted on the crumbling stone rail of the balcony, her chin in her hand. Her dress was the very essence of French Victoria nobility, all high collar, lace, and yards and yards of fabric. She tapped her finger on her bottom lip thoughtfully, her eyes focused in the middle distance. She couldn't hear whether he had left or not, but she doubted that he had.

"The gardens were lovely once," he said, again attempting to make polite conversation with her. "Of course, it's been nearly a century since anyone has lived in the manor."

The man drifted to the balcony and settled next to her, having the proper breeding not to look directly at her, but casting his gaze out across the grounds instead. She glanced over at him through the corner of her eyes, not deigning to turn her head to see him fully. She took note of his most obvious attributes, filed them away to attach the name he would no doubt give her soon, and went back to her silent reverie.

He had likely been handsome in life, but the pallor of transparence had a tendency to accentuate only the beauty of women, conversely obscuring that of men. He was an upright gentleman, however, she could tell. He had likely been lesser nobility before he'd died—a knight, perhaps, or a baron. Below them, in the gardens, a number of translucent gentlemen on horses rode out toward the wood at the edge of the property, all holding their own heads.

"Have you come to take part in the games?" he asked her, which she thought a funny question. Was it a polite way of asking her the manner of her death, or was he simply offering small talk?

She straightened, as a lady of her standing should have the moment she'd realized she wasn't alone. "I do not participate in the games," she said. Her accent was clearly French, but she spoke English so well that it was clear she had been taught by only the most qualified tutors when she'd lived. "You are, I might then assume, a member?" she asked, hoping she would not have to talk with him long.

His cheeks turned a darker gray than the rest of his face and she supposed that she had asked him a rather embarrassing question. "Ah, well, I've applied, anyway," he told her. He gave her a short bow and presented his hand to take hers. She gave it and he kissed the air over the back of it daintily. "My manners desert me," he said. "I am Nicholas. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."

She nodded vaguely, but was interrupted as another dead man stepped out onto the balcony.

"Sophie Claire?" he asked, and she gestured for him to approach.

"Come and meet Sir Nicholas," she said, hoping to extract herself from conversation through the art of distraction.

"Ah," Sir Nicholas said sharply, reaching to shake the newcomer's hand. "One of the Hunters?" he asked, but it was Sophie Claire who answered.

"No, this is Patrick," she told him, "my husband."

This caught Sir Nicholas' attention immediately. "Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore?" he asked, doing his best to look sharp.

"That is correct," the man said, puffing out his chest proudly. Sophie Claire rolled her eyes behind his back and excused herself from the conversation. After five hundred years, she only tolerated his club and his presence.

"Well," Sir Nicholas said, "I was hoping to talk to you about your rejection of my application."


End file.
